


but it said enough

by andchaos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:33:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2734469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey didn't say he loved him, but he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but it said enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grumblesandmumbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblesandmumbles/gifts).



> Guess what? Title came from Taylor Swift's You Are In Love (again) because I'm fucking obsessed with that song for Ian/Mickey.
> 
> Warnings: really bad language (obviously), mentions of Terry abusing his kids cos he's a piece of shit, bipolar disorder, NOT SPOILER FREE. Basically when I started this, Ian was all medicated up and stable in my head (I just want him to be happy, okay? a girl can dream), but then that promo of cheek kisses got released and I just had to incorporate it, plus it prompted me to actually finish this fucking thing, so yeah, there's also some bad BD shit going down in parts of this because to get that scene in here I had to make Ian go off his meds for part of it or it wouldn't really work. It's still just fluff though, I promise.
> 
> So uh, that happened.

Mickey didn’t say “I love you.”

          Once, when they were very little, Mandy had crawled into his bed after another nightmare borne of their father’s latest breach of parole. She had looked up at him, her wide eyes the only thing left looking innocent on her six year old face. Still half-asleep, Mickey had put his arm around her without question, letting her plaster herself to his side. He hadn’t asked, even when she had started to cry.

          When she had finally started to quiet down, he’d still held her, his arm around her small shoulders, hers around his waist. She had sniffed, freeing one arm to scrub at her nose.

          “Mickey?” she’d asked, voice ghostly coming out of the dark, “It’s all fucked, isn’t it?”

          He hadn’t asked what she was talking about, hadn’t even flinched at her coarse language. He’d just pressed her closer to his side, nodded, and whispered back, “Yeah. I think so.”

          Mandy had nodded.

          “Fucked for life,” she said quietly.

          She hadn’t started to cry again. She hadn’t spoken again, either, but after a few minutes’ silence, Mickey had.

          “Does anyone in this fucking family love each other?” he’d said bitterly, not really expecting a response. He thought he already knew the answer to that one.

          They’d both been quiet again for a time, each envisioning with fresh clarity the bruises on Iggy’s face and arms that afternoon, the terrified and almost _relieved_ expression on his face when someone at the bar had called the cops to come drag Terry away. The whole ordeal had seemed to pass by in a matter of minutes, and though Mickey had watched his father mercilessly beat plenty of people plenty of times, this had been different. Earth-shattering. No matter how many beer bottles his father threw at Mickey’s head, or how many times his fists connected with Mandy or Colin or the others, Iggy had always seemed different. Unstoppable. Mickey realized much later that Terry had probably been hitting him all along, just under his clothes so nobody could see, but at the time he’d been appalled. Iggy was the neighborhood terror, the brother that Mickey copied when he started playing with guns and drinking beer, and for years, Mickey had thought that nothing could bring him down.

          But then, Terry.

          Mandy hadn’t responded for awhile. Mickey had thought that she didn’t want to think about it anymore, or that maybe she was done talking for the night, but eventually, slowly, she’d spoken.

          “Maybe. I don’t know. But I think Mom loved us, and I think Colin loves us, and maybe Iggy too. Maybe we’re just not allowed to say it.”

          Mickey had been nine years old when he learned not to say “I love you.” So at twenty, when Svetlana closed her robe and asked, “You love him?” Mickey said, “Maybe. I don’t know,” and left it at that.

 

 

* * *

 

They were watching something stupid on television.

          The Gallaghers were sprawled on the couches and chairs and the floor, eyes fixed on the tiny brunette girl onscreen, who was tiptoeing down the basement stairs. The lights in the living room were turned low and the entire family—with the obvious exception of Liam—was gathered around, chewing on popcorn or cuddled up to each other, fixated on the film. Mickey had somehow found himself amidst this family gathering, squeezed between Ian and the armrest on the couch. The three-seater currently had four people squashed on it, so Mickey was feeling a little claustrophobic, but after dinner had adjourned Ian had told him that he could spend the night. He didn’t have anything to look forward to at home anyway, just a son he was avoiding babysitting and a wife he could barely look at, so he decided to stick it out. Ian seemed to be enjoying his company at any rate, if the way he kept really unsubtly glancing over at him was any indication.

          Mickey didn’t really like horror movies. They were stupid, and pointless, full of jump scares and stupid rich kids who weren’t quick enough on the trigger. Nobody ever knew how to handle a knife, and people kept stopping to have sex while something locked in the house with them was waiting to kill them. All in all, it wasn’t his favorite genre. He preferred action movies, with suave heroes that tore up their suits jumping out of planes, because those types of films always had plenty of bombs and fast cars and shoot-outs with the police.

          He was particularly disinclined toward his present situation, because the whole setting was so… _uncomfortable_ for him. Sitting around, watching television, clutching onto each other when someone else got stabbed or hanged or burned alive…it was all so _normal_ , and thereby unnerving. Not a month ago Ian had been borderline catatonic; innumerable doctors’ visits and a handful of pills later, he was doing much, much better, but Mickey couldn’t seem to settle back down into a normal routine with him. Everything felt so insecure, like their cautious stability could collapse in an instant if he wasn’t meticulously careful with his suddenly fragile-seeming boyfriend. The utter foreignness of such a peaceful family gathering wasn’t helping, either. Mickey couldn’t remember the last time his whole family had been together doing something entirely, undeniably legal. Milkoviches tended to bond by orchestrating large drug deals over dinner, or going out to club someone into submission or for retribution. Sometimes he would play video games with one of his siblings, but that was the extent of his experience with familial bonding.

          To make matters worse, Ian had spent the weeks since his recovery turning his attentions to Mandy, and his determination to keep her out of the Milkovich house whenever possible meant she was sprawled on the armchair next to the couch. The tension between her and Lip was palpable, and awkward. Mickey didn’t know exactly what had happened there, but he gathered that the whole thing was messy as hell. He heartily wished either his sister or her ex-boyfriend would fuck off, but Lip’s school was let out for break and he had no intention of telling his sister to go back to the house with her abusive boyfriend. She had spent the past two days on the floor next to Ian’s bed, mercifully not giving them shit about spooning at night but still managing to be a pain in Mickey’s ass.

          Mickey tried to focus on the movie to settle his nerves. A certain twitchiness had settled in his stomach from the minute they turned the lights down, telling him to run out the back door. He ignored it. The girl on the screen had reached the basement finally and was searching for a light switch, which—shockingly—turned out to be dead. She edged towards one of the rooms shooting off from the main room, and the Gallaghers all tensed visibly.

          “Don’t go in there!” Debbie shouted out, to no avail.

          Carl curled the blanket he was under tighter around himself, clutching it around his chin as though to hide his face at a moment’s notice. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. He was trying to sound derisive, but his voice was shaking. “She’s got a pipe.”

          “Relax, Debs,” Lip agreed. “They haven’t even killed off the black kid yet. And the chick with the rack’s taking a shower upstairs; they’ll get her first.”

          “No!” Debbie said, voice high-pitched with terror. “The creepy hat guy’s in the basement with her!”

          “She’s gonna fucking die,” Mickey agreed, and however much he knew how the whole movie would play out, he couldn’t keep his voice from thickening.

          At least three of the Gallaghers turned to stare at him, but before he could feel too self-conscious and start snapping at people, the killer jumped out from behind a strangely placed treadmill and started hacking the girl to pieces. Debbie, Carl, and Mandy all screamed, Debbie loudest and Carl longest; Fiona cursed boisterously and profusely; Lip gave a startled laugh; and Ian jumped, clutching at Mickey’s hand and spilling the popcorn on his lap all over the floor.

          When everyone’s heart rate returned to normal, Ian seemed to realize that he was still holding onto Mickey’s hand. Admittedly, Mickey hadn’t really noticed, as he had jumped a little himself, but he realized what was happening as Ian started to pull his hand away. He let him, watching the back of Ian’s head as he leaned down to scoop all of the spilled popcorn back into the bowl and then went into the kitchen to throw it out. Mickey tried not to think about how suddenly cold his hand felt. Ian returned after a minute, squeezing back into the space between Mickey and Lip, watching the movie the whole time.

          Before he could think about it too long, Mickey reached over and grabbed Ian’s hand again. The movement was awkward and unpracticed; he held on weirdly, like two people sharing an uncoordinated and prolonged handshake, and he squeezed too tightly, more like he was trying to break bones than share affection. It was dark, and no one else noticed, but he could feel Ian turn to look at him when he did it, his eyes wide. Mickey determinedly kept his eyes fixed on the screen, resolute in never looking Ian in the face again, but after a solid half minute, he could still feel Ian’s eyes on him. Mickey jabbed him in the arm with his free hand.

          “Don’t make a whole big thing of it, asswipe,” he muttered, pretending not to fidget.

          Ian cleared his throat and after a few seconds turned his attention back to the movie as well. In his periphery, Mickey took note of the smug smile on his stupid freckled face.

          He shook his head a little, repressing a smirk, and adjusted so that their fingers fell together more comfortably.

          The rest of the movie was almost interesting.

 

 

* * *

 

Someone in the army had died.

          For his part, Mickey wasn’t overly concerned about the whole thing. People died all the time in wars, didn’t they? Ian seemed worked up about it, even though he’d only been in the service for a few months before trying (and failing) to hijack a helicopter and ditching the army to go dance at gay bars. Mickey still wasn’t sure how he felt about that, although seeing Ian in sparkly gold hot pants was a bigger perk than he would have expected.

          “You shouldn’t have gone,” Mickey said for the fifth time that morning. He was leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed and watching Ian violently yank off the pair of relatively fancy shoes that Carl said he’d stolen from Frank, that time they had to fake his death. Mickey kind of wanted to know what was up with that, but he had more pressing issues to which he had to attend at the moment.

          For one, he was pretty sure Ian was off his meds. Again.

          “Oh yeah?” said Ian in a hard, sarcastic voice, looking up from where he was trying to untie his left shoe, an eyebrow raised challengingly. “Why’s that? Everything went _great_ if you ask me.”

          Mickey sighed, rolling his eyes and pushing off the door frame so that he could enter the room. “Ian,” he huffed, sitting down heavily on the bed next to him, but before he could continue on with his intended spiel about how Ian needed to take care of himself—for what felt like the hundredth time that week—Ian finally got his other shoe off and immediately jumped to his feet, interrupting him.

          “Mick, just leave it! Jesus Christ, I’m _fine_ , okay?”

          “You almost bludgeoned a church group with a fucking cross!” Mickey shouted, also lurching up. “Not that they don’t deserve it, but _fuck_!”

          “I’m not taking those stupid pills!” Ian yelled. He tore at his shirt like it was burning him, throwing it into the corner when he finally got free, and tugged on the first thing in his dresser. Some green t-shirt that Mickey usually liked to appreciate because it looked nice against his hair and eyes, but which Ian would apparently be ruining for him today. “I hate them, okay?” Ian continued, now shoving his feet into a pair of converse instead. “They make my brain all…” He made a weird gesture around his temples with his hands, which Mickey guessed was supposed to indicate the fuzziness that Ian used to talk about with a trembling bottom lip. Fuzzy-brained. That had been Ian’s favorite phrase for the short time he’d actually been on his medication.

          “Then we’ll get you a new prescription!” said Mickey, because he had forced Ian into those therapy sessions and he would do it again, if that’s what he had to do to get him to stop acting like _this_. All wild-eyed and like he was about to vibrate out of his skin and _terrifying Mickey_. “I mean Jesus, you were playing with my dad’s fucking rifle! And you’ve been carrying a pistol all morning. Mandy’s having a fucking heart attack, and I—”

          “Tell her not to worry about it,” said Ian, pushing Mickey roughly out of the way.

          Mickey followed him down the stairs and into the living room. “Well, _I’m_ worrying about it, shithead.”

          “Well, _don’t_.”

          Ian disappeared into the kitchen, but he was back before Mickey could follow him, chewing on one of the granola bars he’d been so fond of when he was manic before. He seemed a little calmer, but only just. He still looked antsy, like the jitters were still buzzing under his skin. He had schooled his expression into something more relaxed, though possibly only so Mickey would stop hassling him.

          Mickey stared at him while he flitted around the living room, apparently looking for something. “Where are you going?” he sighed eventually.

          “Gotta drop Yev off at your place,” said Ian, shoving the rest of the granola bar into his mouth. “Shit, where’s his bottle? Lana’s gonna kill me.”

          “Oh, she’s ‘Lana’ now?” Mickey said sourly. Ian ignored him.

          “You haven’t seen his bottle, have you?” he asked, going back into the kitchen, Mickey in pursuit.

          “No, I haven’t seen his fucking bottle. I wasn’t the one babysitting him last night.” Actually, that had been Debbie, but she was at school at the moment. “I never volunteered for any of this shit.”

          “He’s still your kid, Mick.” Ian’s sigh still sounded frantic. Mickey wished he would just take his fucking meds. “Like it or not.”

          “Definitely _or not_ ,” Mickey grumbled.

          Ian gave him an exasperated look, scouting out the fridge, but he came up empty and slammed the door shut, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck, I’m supposed to meet Lip for lunch, I’m already late to drop Yevy off—”

          “ _Yevy_?”

          “—Fiona!” he said suddenly, as his sister entered the kitchen, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

          “Ian?” Fiona said, voice scratchy like she’d just woken up.

          “Have you seen Yevgeny’s bottle?”

          Fiona seemed to think about it for a minute, pulling out the bread and butter and starting breakfast. “No, don’t think so. You can ask Debbie when she gets home.” She waved a piece of bread at them. “You guys want breakfast?”

          “No time. We gotta get Yev down to Mickey’s,” said Ian. He ran his hand through his hair again, spinning around on the spot as though hoping to see what he was looking for laying around in plain sight. “Okay, shit, forget the bottle,” Ian muttered to himself, still ignoring Mickey’s protests at how quickly he’d taken to the stupid baby. He went back into the living room, leaving Mickey standing at the counter, feeling angry and upset. And he was still in the fucking clothes he’d worn to that stupid funeral. Fiona was eying him worriedly. God, today was a disaster.

          Ian returned, carrying the kid. “You coming?” he asked.

          Mickey glanced at Fiona, whose worried expression mirrored his own.

          “Yeah, yeah.” He had to talk to Mandy anyway.

          They were quiet on the drive to Mickey’s. Ian still seemed unsettled, and Mickey didn’t have anything to say that he hadn’t already mentioned. He just sat in the passenger seat, twisting his hands together and trying to tamp down all the worry that never really went away these days. After everything he’d done, couldn’t Ian just take care of himself? For _once_?

          They didn’t talk much even when Ian parked and they hopped out of the car. Ian got Yev from his booster seat in the back (Mickey felt like a fucking soccer mom having that shit, but it was just another donation from Liam’s old shit, and Ian had put it in himself one afternoon) and tried to hold Mickey’s hand while they walked up the front steps, but Mickey wasn’t in the mood.

          Svetlana gave them both shit when Ian gave her the kid, and Mickey managed to duck out while she was yelling about carrot boys distracting “piece of shit husband” and making him, and therefore her, late. He found Mandy in the kitchen, making herself a grilled cheese sandwich.

          “You get him to take his meds?” she asked when he entered the room, not turning around.

          “No,” Mickey said bitterly. He strode forward, grabbing his sister’s arm and pressing a bottle into her hands. She looked up at him, surprised. “I stole these from his bathroom, alright? Look, I can’t stay, but can you maybe tag along to lunch with his brother and try to slip them into his food or something?”

          Mandy pushed away from the stove, crossing her arms. She hadn’t dropped the bottle, though. “You want me to go along to a private lunch, and see my ex-boyfriend, all so I can drug my best friend?” she hissed.

          It sounded worse when she laid it out like that, but Mickey wasn’t about to give a shit. “Yeah.”

          She sighed, pushing her hair out of her eyes, and seriously, _why_ was she blonde? “Mick—”

          “Mickey!” Ian called from the other room. A door slammed; Svetlana must have left.

          “Just make him take them!” Mickey pleaded, starting to back out of the room.

          Mandy rolled her eyes, but before she could say whatever scathing thing was clearly on her mind, Ian joined them. Mickey turned around, only to see Yevgeny still perched in his arms, sleeping quietly. That damn baby was too well-behaved. Mickey was starting to seriously doubt that he was actually a biological Milkovich.

          “Aw, fuck, why’ve you still got the kid?”

          Ian laughed. It was too loud, too out-of-control. Mandy and Mickey exchanged a concerned look while his head was thrown back, but she turned back and continued making her food as soon as Ian got himself under control, before he could notice.

          “Relax, Mick! Svetlana’s just getting changed, she’ll take him as soon as she’s done. Then we can get going.”

          “That’s great,” said Mickey distractedly. “Look, Ian—”

          “Don’t you have to go to work?” Mandy interrupted, like she knew exactly what he was about to say. She was right, anyway; Kev had been bugging him for days to let Ian be for a bit, because “he can take care of himself, man” and “some bald asshole keeps harassing one of the girls, you need to get him under control.” Mickey glared at his sister anyway, annoyed that she had interrupted what was definitely going to be a well-rehearsed and convincing speech about Ian taking proper care of himself. He supposed she thought she had a better, and possibly more subtle, plan. Not that that tempered his aggravation.

          “Yes,” he muttered resentfully.

          “You wanna come to lunch first?” Ian asked, misreading his irritation as an unwillingness to go to The Alibi. “We’re going for burgers.” He shifted Yevgeny so he was cradling against one shoulder. He looked like a sleepy pug puppy, eyes closed and chubby cheeks pressed against Ian’s neck, and _no_ , Mickey didn’t fucking care.

          “And deal with your asshole brother for a few hours? No thanks,” Mickey scoffed, leveling Ian with a look that clearly conveyed how absurd he found him.

          “Okay,” said Ian easily, because really, nobody expected Mickey to do anything else, and he really did have to get down the Rub N Tug anyway.

          Svetlana returned at that moment, appearing in the doorway behind them. “Carrot Boy,” she barked. “Child, now.”

          Mickey turned to Ian, expecting a goodbye of some sort.

          Before Mickey knew what he was doing, Ian had wrapped one hand around Mickey’s tie and was pulling him closer. Mickey tilted his head towards him, assuming he was going to whisper something to him that he didn’t want Svetlana and Mandy to hear, but Ian just pressed his lips to Mickey’s cheek and pulled away, like this was all nothing.

          Mickey blinked for a second, wrong-footed. Mandy looked stunned, and kind of worried, like she expected Mickey to punch Ian in the face or something. Svetlana seemed annoyed at the hold up. Ian just looked sort of happy, and for a brief moment, calm. Like himself.

          Perhaps distracted by the momentary instance of proper clarity that Ian seemed to be experiencing, and desperately hoping to keep him that way, Mickey slid a hand around Ian’s neck and pulled him back, kissing him a proper goodbye.

          Ian looked smug, and elated. “See ya later, Mick.”

          “Yeah, yeah. Fuck off now.”

 

 

* * *

 

Bars had always been Mickey’s safe haven.

          Possibly due to Kev’s explicit intervention, nobody really harassed Mickey about his liking other guys over at The Alibi, even though his big violent coming out had taken place there. Maybe Mickey’s tough demeanor and long history of making good on his threats were enough to keep people quiet. Maybe they honestly just didn’t care. Whatever the reason, nobody really gave him a hard time about any of it, so he still went there most of the time he was looking for a bar, especially because he still had a business to run right above it and it was the closest joint to his house.

          Still, just because nobody cared, didn’t mean nobody gave him shit about it.

          All of the regular drinkers down there liked to tease him on occasion, just because they knew he was almost guaranteed to get riled up. This was particularly true of the Russians, especially Svetlana and her friend with the strong tongue, and the likelihood only increased if Ian came with him. So, although he didn’t exactly _avoid_ The Alibi, he usually opted for other bars if he and Ian were going out together. Anything to avoid seeing his wife, who was always on him about babysitting Yevgeny more often anyway. Although, she’d been much more distant since Nika had moved in, to his eternal relief.

          So one night he decided to try out one of the other bars around town, one he hadn’t ever visited personally, although he’d heard about their more liberal policies from some carefully interviewed passersby on the street.

          “Where the hell are we going?” Ian asked for the third time since they’d set off.

          “Would you relax? For once in your life?” said Mickey. “What, twenty minutes’ walk is gonna kill you? What the fuck happened to the kid who was going on runs and taking pictures of the fucking sunrise?”

          He’d started taking his meds again is what had happened to him, but neither of them pointed that out.

          Ian grumbled incoherently, but Mickey could make out the words “fucking _cold_ ” and there was a chance Ian had insulted him, but he couldn’t be sure.

          Mickey rolled his eyes, unmoved. The late spring night was admittedly a little cooler than it had been all week, but Ian was being a bit dramatic; neither of them had even bothered to bring a jacket. “Calm your tits, princess,” he said. “It’s only a few more minutes, _jeez_.”

          They lapsed into silence. When they came upon the turn Mickey had been instructed to take, he grabbed at Ian’s wrist to stop him from walking along any further and led him down the side street.

          “Is this the part where you murder me in an alley?” Ian asked conversationally. He tugged his hand a little so that Mickey’s slipped down and he could properly entwine their fingers. Ever since that movie in the Gallaghers’ living room, Ian had been utilizing this newfound concession at every possible opportunity.

          “Yeah, and then I get brutally revenge-killed by my sister,” said Mickey distractedly, still pulling him along behind him because the alley wasn’t even big enough for two people to walk down side by side.

          “I knew that’s how you would go.”

          “Yeah, yeah. Shut up and walk, Firecrotch.”

          They got about halfway down the path before Mickey stopped suddenly. Ian barely stopped from crashing into him, and Mickey gave him a look that was somehow both fond and patronizing before reaching out and opening a door in front of him, so black and innocuous that it was almost completely unnoticeable in the dark.

          It was a dive bar. That much was immediately obvious. The whole place was cast in the same dark, grainy light as the alley outside, with bad lighting and dirty tables and people spitting on the floor. The woman behind the bar was cleaning out a glass with a rag that should probably be run through the wash, and the drinks were cheaper than anything containing good alcohol should be. Ian looked around with his eyebrows raised when he stepped after Mickey over the threshold, and both of them took in the scene.

          “You come here often?” Ian asked from behind him.

          Mickey turned to look at him. “No,” he said slowly, still glancing around. “Those shitheads at the skate park said it was a good place. You know…nonjudge-y and shit.”

          “Skate park?”

          “Yeah, you know…that place behind the dumpster off the East Side line. Where the stoners sit and do skate tricks and suck each other’s dicks, or whatever.”

          Ian smiled, making that face he did when he was desperately trying not to laugh, but also like he found Mickey irresistibly cute. Mickey glared back, irritated at this assessment.

          “I feel like I should go to the skate park more often,” Ian said finally.

          Mickey made a face at him. “Shut up, asshole. We gonna drink or are we gonna stand in the doorway chit-chatting all night?”

          “Fine. First round’s on you.” With that, Ian pushed past him and headed for the bar, leaving Mickey to fall into step behind him.

          “What the fuck for?” he protested.

          “For picking the sketchiest bar in Chicago, Mick.”

          Ian slid into a seat at the bar, and Mickey immediately took the spot next to him. The bartender looked over and jerked her head, indicating that she would be over in a minute. Mickey turned to his boyfriend, who was scanning the bottles behind the bar, apparently contemplating what to choose. As he studied Ian’s profile, his gaze flicked from his face to his hand, the fingers of which were drumming on the countertop. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing on the corner and trying to convince himself against twenty years’ evidence to the contrary that he very much could reach out and take his hand in public, and nothing bad would happen. Holding hands in a dark room or a deserted alley was all well and good, but such a very public declaration of affection—of _ownership_ —was something else entirely.

          Even kissing him in front of his family a few weeks ago hadn’t been that big of a deal, because Svetlana and Mandy both _knew_ , and didn’t care. This was different.

          Ian eventually took notice of his incessant staring and turned towards him, one eyebrow arched almost mockingly, like he knew exactly what Mickey was struggling to do. His lips were quirked in a partial smile, teasing, curious.

          “Can I help you? Or is the view just that good?”

          Mickey glanced around the bar, licking his lips. Nobody was even looking at them, and nobody seemed to care. Those random skater kids _had_ promised that this bars’ clientele, no matter how apparently sketchy they looked, were indifferent to people like the two of them…He looked back at Ian, his own fist clenching on his thigh, and took a deep breath, preparing himself to stop overthinking it and to just fucking _do it_ already—

          —and then he blurted out, “I gotta take a piss,” and bolted for the bathrooms.

          Nobody else was inside, so he was free to pace up and down the tiny space, running his hands through his hair occasionally. After his fourth circulation, he spun around to continue his tense stride when the door opened up behind him. Panic immediately struck him; it was probably Ian, wondering why he had been a fucking freak back at the bar and why in the hell peeing was taking him this long. He whirled to face the newcomer and froze, an excuse darting to his lips, but then the man entered the room and it was just some random drunk guy that he didn’t know at all. He exhaled heavily as the other guy sauntered toward a stall. Mickey, not wanting to appear as though he was having a panic attack in the bathroom over whether or not he was mentally stable enough to hold someone’s hand, went to the sinks to wash his hands. As soon as the water started up, puking noises sounded from the stall that the other man had just entered.

          Mickey sighed, staring at himself in the mirror. He looked exceptionally pale and rough, more so than usual, and _Jesus_ , he couldn’t believe he was this messed up over one stupid public display of affection. Ian had probably done it all the time with his past boyfriends, without a second thought. Just whenever the whim hit him.

          Imagining being one-upped by some old piece of shit that used to use Ian as a mistress did nothing to temper his mood. He glared at himself in the mirror, pointing a finger harshly at his reflection.

          “Sack up,” he told himself sternly. “You’re a fucking Milkovich. You’re gonna stop being a pussy. You’re gonna go out there and hold his fucking hand. You’re gonna be a fucking man about it.”

          He actually felt a little more confident when he was done. Just as he finished his little pep talk, though, a flushing noise filled the tiny room, and the other man exited the stall. He ambled to the sinks, then turned to Mickey, burped, and said, “That’s the spirit, my friend. You go hold that fuckin’ hand.”

          Mickey leveled him with a look that straddled disgusted and threatening.

          “Shut the fuck up, man,” he said harshly. The guy just shrugged and started rinsing out his mouth. Mickey watched him for a few more seconds before it became clear that the other man had nothing more to say; shaking his head a little, Mickey muttered a few more curses at him and exited the bathroom.

          Mickey threw the bathroom door open, his stride quick and sure as he crossed back to his seat, confident that he was going to do it, he was going to hold Ian Gallagher’s hand—

          He stopped short halfway across the room.

          Someone had filled his vacated seat. The man was tall, lean, and dark-haired, and older, more like Ian’s usual type than Mickey was. He looked somewhere in his mid-thirties or -forties, and he was nursing his drink with the air of someone very rich and powerful who always got his way. As he leaned further into Ian’s space, he grinned flirtatiously and smoothed a hand down his expensive-looking suit. Before Mickey could react at all, the man pushed even closer and whispered something directly into Ian’s ear.

          For his part, Ian looked politely disinterested as he pulled away from the man, glancing over his shoulder. A distinctly relieved expression washed over his face when he spotted Mickey, but at that point Mickey was seeing red. His vision tunneled, zeroing in on the man’s hand on Ian’s arm. No other thought passed through his head, just an overwhelming urge to go over and fight for what was his, so he unstuck his feet from the floor and stomped over to the bar where Ian and this stranger sat.

          “Hey, douchebag,” he said loudly. The man ignored him, tipping his head and smiling at Ian instead. He ran one finger down his arm, apparently trying to draw Ian’s attention back to him.

          “Hey,” Mickey repeated, grabbing the man’s shoulder and forcibly spinning him around. “You fucking deaf?”

          “It’s Reed, actually,” said the other loftily, eying Mickey up and down in apparent distaste. “ _Not_ that I’d expect you to know me,” he added, gaze lingering on Mickey’s tattoos and the dirt caked until his nails, which dug into Mickey’s palms when he immediately curled his hands into fists.

          Mickey rubbed at his chin, annoyed but willing to play the game. “Yeah, well I don’t give a fuck what yacht club you’re president of,” he sneered. “You’re in my seat. So fuck off.”

          “Mick—” Ian protested, but he had a small smile on his face like he was amused by the proceedings.

          They both ignored him; Reed got to his feet, probably trying to force Mickey back a few steps to give him room, but Mickey stood his ground despite the height disparity that emerged. Reed bent to get right in Mickey’s face, but Mickey had faced tougher opponents than assholes that swanned around dive bars in a suit, hitting on the first young prey they found, and he didn’t react.

          “Are you his keeper or something?” Reed asked, with a tinny laugh that sounded false and grated on Mickey’s eardrums.

          “You _wish_ that’s all I was,” Mickey spit. “We’d have a much smaller problem.”

          “I don’t see that we have any problem,” said Reed, stiffening a little. “I was just having a nice chat with my young friend here when _you_ came barging—”

          “Oh yeah?” Mickey interrupted, shoving even closer so that they were chest-to-chest, Reed backed up against the bar stool. “Well chat’s over, tough guy. Get the fuck out of here, and if you so much as _look_ at him again, I’ll tear both your eyes out with my bare hands. Got it?”

          Reed regarded him coldly. “I doubt that, somehow. Barbarians like you are usually all talk.”

          Mickey scoffed, backing off a little. His smile was small and threatening, heralding danger rather than laughter. He nodded a little to himself, and when he met Reed’s gaze again, he barely paused before drawing back and punching him across the face.

          Mickey was no stranger to bar fights. Prepared to turn this into a full on brawl, he barely gave the guy time to recover before he was winding up again, but before he could land a second punch, Reed put both his hands up in surrender, shoving away from the bar and putting space between him and Ian. He rubbed hard at his jaw, spit bloodily on the floor, and glared from Ian to Mickey and back.

          “I didn’t realize you were into psychopaths,” he said harshly.

          “Come near me or my boyfriend again, I swear to God I’ll make good on my promise,” Mickey ground out, rubbing at his bruised knuckles. “You won’t look so fuckin’ fancy with your eyeballs torn out of their sockets, will you? Now do yourself a favor and _fuck off_.”

          Reed straightened, and with one last glare, he turned around and stormed off in a huff to harass someone at the other end of the bar. Still breathing heavily, mostly out of residual anger and annoyance, Mickey glared after him for a few seconds before dropping heavily into the recently vacated seat next to Ian, who was watching him like he was holding back laughter.

          “What the fuck are you looking at?” Mickey said, not meeting his eye even as he reached over and stole his drink. He gulped it down, finishing it off quickly. The bartender, apparently unfazed by his recent display of violence, came to refill his glass as soon as it hit the counter, bringing up a second cup for Ian as well.

          “Nothing,” said Ian, but he sounded way too happy as he sipped at his whiskey. Mickey chanced a glance at him, but he was now studying his own finger as it traced the rim of his cup hesitantly. “It’s just…”

          “ _What_?”

          “You called me your boyfriend,” Ian pointed out, daring to meet his eye as he said it. “Out loud. In public.”

          Mickey hastily downed the rest of his drink to avoid reacting to this, but Ian was still watching him gleefully when he was done, so he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and said roughly, “Yeah, well. You are.”

          “I know,” said Ian, but he still sounded both cheerful and almost _proud_ , and he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. He picked up his drink and lapsed back into silence, apparently watching a group of people sitting in one of the booths near the back wall. His right hand was drumming on the countertop again.

          Mickey didn’t give himself time to think about it; he reached out and grabbed Ian’s free hand with his own, and before Ian could even start in surprise, Mickey started chugging his whiskey again, eyes fixed on a spot above the bartender’s head.

          A small smile crept onto Ian’s face, but he mercifully didn’t say anything, just glanced once at Mickey and then went back to people watching. For his part, Mickey tangled their fingers together and dropped their twined hands off the bar to swing somewhere between their legs, drinking pointedly all the while.

 

 

* * *

 

 

          Mandy spent a lot of time over at the Gallaghers’ nowadays. She seemed to have appointed herself Ian’s personal guardian when Mickey wasn’t around, and even though Ian had once again resolved to take his pills now that they had changed his prescription and they no longer made him fuzzy-headed, both Mandy and Mickey made sure someone was almost always around to ensure that he actually followed through.

          The Milkoviches liked to sleep in, but neither of them slept well in beds that weren’t their own. Kind of like a fight or flight reaction, waking up to something unknown put them on edge. Mickey, admittedly, slept alright at the Gallaghers’ nowadays, especially because he spent almost every night tucked next to Ian, but Mandy was still having trouble adjusting. Which is perhaps why Mickey found her downstairs one morning before anyone else was awake, sipping at coffee and staring out the window. He grabbed a poptart and his own cup of coffee and sat down across from her at the table.

          “What are you doing up?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

          Mandy shrugged, blonde hair falling over her shoulder. She was still refusing to tell anyone what was up with that. He guessed the answer to his own question and didn’t push the issue. He’d been like that too, at first.

          After a few minutes, she asked, “Is Lip coming home today?”

          Mickey paused, coffee halfway to his mouth, and raised his eyebrows at her. “What’s up with you two? Don’t tell me you’re back with that asshole.”

          Mandy stuck her tongue out. “He’s got a girlfriend.”

          Mickey snorted. As if the Milkoviches were known for their ethics. “That a yes?”

          “Fuck you,” Mandy said, but she was laughing a little.

          “Don’t tell me you still care about that piece of shit,” Mickey said, exasperated. The kid had really fucked his sister up last time. “What, you love him or something?”

          “I don’t know,” Mandy shot back, “You love Ian or something?”

          “Fuck off.”

          “Back atcha.”

          They were quiet for a little bit, and when they did finally speak again, it was uncomplicated small talk. They drifted to the living room to play video games after awhile, and the Gallaghers awoke slowly after an hour or so. When Fiona started making pancakes, Mickey and Mandy migrated back to the kitchen for a proper breakfast. Mandy talked to Debbie about some blonde bitch who was giving her shit at school, and Mickey mostly talked to Ian, occasionally tuning in to the others’ conversations long enough to make a comment here or there, usually to Carl, whom he had decided he liked best out of all of Ian’s siblings. After about ten or fifteen minutes, Fiona dumped the first batch of pancakes on a plate and everyone scrambled to grab some. Ian stole some off Mickey’s plate, and Mickey didn’t protest, not even when he then proceeded to grab Mickey’s hand when he tried to steal some back. Mickey twined their hands together more comfortably and slipped their clasped fingers onto his lap, and everyone saw but nobody said anything or even indicated that they’d noticed, aside from a few raised eyebrows. He poured Ian coffee and let him kiss him when he gave him his last pancake, and when Mickey put his morning medication on his empty plate, Ian rolled his eyes and swallowed it without complaint. Mickey squeezed his hand and ignored his sister and the others when they loudly chorused, “Aw!” when he offered him his coffee to help wash it down.

          He met Mandy’s eyes, and she grinned. _You love him_ , she mouthed.

          Mickey flipped her off. “Fuck you,” he said aloud, but then he squeezed Ian’s hand again, studying the side of his face as he described something to Debbie, talking a mile a minute and waving around his free hand. Something harsh in Mickey softened.

          He didn’t know how to admit it, didn’t even know where to begin, so he held his hand under the table and kept quiet, watching him talk without really listening.

          Mickey didn’t say he loved him, but he did.


End file.
